


Try (Heart Beats Harder)

by euhemeria



Series: And, In Sign of Ancient Love, Their Plighted Hands They Join [64]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff and Smut, It's weed lube, Kind of..., Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-20 18:23:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18530593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euhemeria/pseuds/euhemeria
Summary: “No,” says Fareeha, “I know what CBD is,” she may be the more straight edge of the two of them, but her lover could give her some credit.  “But why do you have it?”  Obviously, Fareeha knows what lube is for.  Butweedlube?Or,Fareeha gets more than she bargained for, after she goes rummaging in Angela's nightstand.





	Try (Heart Beats Harder)

**Author's Note:**

> i totally forgot 4/20 was coming up but im a genius, actually, and wrote this on thursday without thinking abt it. happy 4/20 and also chag sameach LMFAO

Although Fareeha and Angela are very close, and they live together, they do not share _everything._ This is not to say that they have secrets, but a trusting relationship does not necessarily call for a complete denial of privacy—in fact, a part of trusting one’s partner is knowing that they do not need to share every part of their life with you, and that secrets are not always nefarious things.  Sometimes, things are just embarrassing, like Fareeha’s very specific fear of contracting a foot fungus while at public swimming pools, or are not necessary to share, such as when she has a rather explicit dream about a mutual friend of theirs, or are something that the other person is not well equipped to deal with, like some of Fareeha’s very specific anxieties surrounding her mother.

So, they have not secrets, but private things, certain thoughts they keep to themselves and themselves alone.  If Fareeha pressed, she is certain that Angela would tell her about the things she has not mentioned, such as why she is so stubbornly insistent that it is she who does the grocery shopping, and does not invite Fareeha along, but Fareeha feels no need to do so.  Anything that is hidden is so for good reason, and she knows that Angela would not hide something from her with the intent to do harm.  They are, both of them, still entitled to their privacy, to live their own lives apart from one another, to stay independent people, even as they learn to be more open, more trusting, more reliant on outside help.

So, really, it should not surprise Fareeha too much when she opens Angela’s bedside drawer, looking to see if her own favorite vibrator ended up on the wrong side of the bed, and pulls out something entirely unexpected.

Still, it worries her, to see something in discrete packaging that she does not recognize.  Her German is poor, at best, but she knows a few medical terms on sight, from having looked over Angela’s shoulder while she is working many times over.  This vial, whatever it is, is labelled as being for _health,_ and has a little red cross in the corner that might mean it is a swiss product, but might also indicate that it is medical in nature.  Certainly, it looks as if it may be.

Is Angela sick? 

Surely Fareeha would know, if she were, but perhaps not.  Doctors are known to be terrible patients, and in any case, Fareeha has _never_ known Angela to be ill, so it is completely possible that she has always hidden illnesses. 

Because she respects Angela’s privacy, she does not open the vial, does not do anything other than close the drawer, gently, and message Angela to see when she will be done working, she thinks.

An hour, so she will not be here early enough for any sort of private send-off before Fareeha herself departs on a brief PR-heavy mission, networking with recently retired members of several militaries, and trying to recruit them over various paramilitary organizations, Helix included.  And if the hour is insufficient time for them to say their goodbyes anything but quickly, then it is certainly not the time to be bringing up potentially serious matters, such as Angela’s health.

So Fareeha distracts herself, focuses her attention again on trying to find the vibrator so that she can put it in her travel bag, and tells herself that it is nothing, that Angela would tell her if something were wrong, even something minor.

Four and half days with next to no sleep later, Fareeha realizes that she is not going to be able to set the matter aside.  Worrying is natural, she tells herself, is normal, and she should not invade Angela’s privacy by forcing her to disclose anything.

But it keeps her up at night, the thought that something might be wrong, and the knowledge that if there were, Angela might be reluctant to share it.

Historically, Angela has not been very forthcoming, when she thinks that something will be a burden on Fareeha, and they are a good deal better, now, at talking about their needs, and relying on one another, but still, they are not _perfect_ , and never before has the matter of Angela’s health come up.

(Fareeha’s health is, of course, common knowledge.  Angela is the only doctor on base, after all, has flipped through Fareeha’s charts more than once.  And really, that does not bother Fareeha in the slightest, saved her the trouble of talking about her insomnia and unfortunate tendency towards yeast infections.)

By the time she has returned, she is resolved to talk about it, somehow.

But how to not sound as if she was snooping?  The vibrator she had been searching for was, after all, only put away with the rest of their toys, rather than in a drawer, post-cleaning, as she discovered, somewhere she _ought_ to have looked first, before Angela’s drawer.  How not to sound as if she does not trust Angela, when she is asking her if there is anything she is keeping a secret?

The truth is: Fareeha trusts Angela to be good to her, but she does not trust Angela to be good to _herself._

So, once they are alone—in bed, because it has been the better part of a week, and Fareeha was not on a combat mission, so she _ought_ not to be tired, and Angela has, evidently, missed her—she brings it up, puts a hand between them when Angela moves to straddle her and cuts right to the chase.

“Wait,” says she.  “Before we do anything, there’s something I need to ask you.”

Angela stills immediately.

“Yes?” she sounds worried, but that may just be the result of Fareeha’s phrasing, of the seriousness of her tone.

“You’re not sick, are you?”

“What?”  Angela frowns then, touches a hand to her face, checking her own temperature, “Do I look sick?  Because I—”

“No!” Fareeha says, quickly, and she really could have phrased this better, because actually, Angela looks _very well_ , to phrase things mildly.  “You look fine—better than fine!  I just, uh…” she frowns, “I was looking for something, before I left, and I saw something in your drawer that—I mean, I don’t speak German, but I know it had the word _health tonic_ on it.”

Angela laughs, obviously relieved, “That’s what this is about?”

“Uh,” says Fareeha, “Yes?”

“And you thought—” she snorts, then, the sort of undignified laugh she saves for in private, “You thought I was _sick_?”

“Well,” Fareeha begins, but does not know how to end.

“I take it,” Angela is _still_ laughing at her, but seems to be at least trying to contain herself, now, “I take it you didn’t open the box?”

“I didn’t want to pry—I mean, anymore than I already was,” Fareeha is starting to be annoyed by this, Angela not saying _what,_ exactly, is so amusing.

“I’m sorry,” Angela tells her, noticing that annoyance and finally calming a bit, “I shouldn’t laugh so much, only—it’s CBD oil, Fareeha.  CBD _lube,_ actually.”

“ _What_?”  Of all the things to have worried herself over….

“It’s weed lube, love.”

“No,” says Fareeha, “I know what CBD is,” she may be the more straight edge of the two of them, but her lover could give her _some_ credit.  “But _why_ do you have it?”

(Obviously, Fareeha knows what lube is for.  She and Angela use it occasionally, because Angela does not always respond quite as much or as quickly as she would like to.  But _weed_ lube?)

“It’s fun,” Angela says, with the sort of unassuming smile and open hand gesture that Fareeha knows immediately precedes attempting to convince her to do something.

“Is it?” Fareeha does not mean to sound so doubtful, but, well, she is.

“Mm-hmm,” Angela agrees, moving closer, again, to Fareeha, pressing up against her in a way that is meant to be, and _is_ , for that matter, seductive.  “I can demonstrate, if you like,” this she says directly into Fareeha’s ear, a husky whisper.

Well, after spending the better part of the week apart, Fareeha would be lying if she said she was not tempted, but, “I’d just be watching, right?”   She is not particularly keen on the smell of weed, and she really, truly cannot imagine that sticking her face in a _vagina_ that smells like weed is a more appealing thing.

“You could,” Angela says, “Or,” she begins to trail a hand down Fareeha’s torso, closer and closer to the edge of her pants, “If you like, _you_ can try it.”

_Huh._

It is certainly not something Fareeha has ever considered doing, not liking the thought of sex while impaired in any way, and Angela knows this.  So, a question, “I wouldn’t get high, right?”

(Control is important to Fareeha, knowing that she has full possession of herself at all times.  It is both for here own protection, so that she knows she will be safe, and so that she knows, too, she is ready always to defend those around her.  Getting high has never really had an appeal, therefore, although she has tried it, once or twice.)

“Not really?” Angela’s initial answer is somewhat less than reassuring, but she elaborates.  “Your mind wouldn’t, anyway.  It’s a localized body high, and it only lasts about half an hour.”

“Oh,” says Fareeha, and begins to seriously consider the matter.

“You don’t have to,” Angela reassures her, sitting back, somewhat, “Or we can do it another time, if you change your mind.  I just thought you might enjoy it.”

“No,” Fareeha says, “No I’m not disinterested I just—if it’s a half hour for _you,_ how long will it last for _me_?”  Undoubtedly, Angela has a higher tolerance than she does, and although Fareeha is somewhat intrigued, she wants to know exactly what it is that she is signing up for, here.  A half hour is fine, in theory, but if it lasts all night, well, she would have to decline.

“Ähm,” says Angela, “It should be about the same?  It’s not in your bloodstream, so tolerance isn’t really a factor.”

“Alright,” Fareeha says.

“Alright?” Angela repeats, as if she does not quite believe what she is hearing.

“Yeah,” says Fareeha, “Just not tonight?  I’m kinda tired.”

Although she trusts Angela—and she _does_ , enough to try this, enough to be vulnerable, enough for many other things—she does not think that, jetlagged as she is, this is the best time to try something new.

So they go to sleep, instead of doing anything more, and when a medical emergency keeps Angela away the next night, and she catches up on sleep the night after, and so on, and so forth, Fareeha never forgets about the matter, but she does begin to suspect that it might never happen.

Until, one day, three weeks later, when they both have an afternoon free after flight exercises in the morning and have found themselves in bed, Angela sits back abruptly, breaking their kiss but not moving from straddling Fareeha.

“I almost forgot,” says she, “I know it’s been a while since we talked about it, but if you still want to try the lube…?”  A gesture towards her nightstand follows the sentence, and Fareeha _thinks_ it is a question, but it is hard to tell with Angela, sometimes.

“Sure,” by now, they have had an additional conversation about it, courtesy of Angela, a very thorough and scientific rundown of how it worked, all possible side effects, and what, subjectively, it felt like, so Fareeha is very, _very_ unconcerned.

(In fact, she would not even describe herself as having been concerned during the conversation in question.  If anything, Angela’s very detailed explanations bored her, somewhat—she loves her partner, but tailoring the information she presents to her audience and their degree of knowledgeability about a given subject is _not_ one of Angela’s strong suits.  Still, she appreciates the thoroughness with which the matter was approached, knows that her initial concerns were taken very seriously.)

“In that case,” Angela tells her, moving off of her and nudging open her legs, “Make yourself comfortable.”

Fareeha does, and watches as Angela crawls across the bed and leans over to rummage through her nightstand.  It is not, perhaps, the most flattering angle, but Fareeha enjoys the view nonetheless, barely resists the urge to reach out and pinch Angela’s ass—would, if she did not worry about Angela jumping and falling off of the bed.

A few moments more, and Angela gives a triumphant little hum, returns to Fareeha’s side with the familiar box, and removes a vial from it.  “Would you like the smaller or larger recommended dosage?”

“Smaller,” Fareeha says, because really, she gets wet enough already, so too much would be a waste.  She is surprised, however, when the smaller dosage is no more than a handful of sprays, and that outweighs the mild embarrassment of Angela moving her labia around very _clinically_ in order to spray as much of her as possible.  “That’s it?” she asks.  “Doesn’t really seem like a lot for people who actually need lube.”

“I told you,” Angela says, “It stimulates your own ability to produce lubrication naturally.”

Well, she might have said that, but Fareeha definitely had already zoned out, by that point.  “I see,” says she.  “So… now what?”

Certainly, it has not kicked in yet.  In fact, she cannot feel much of anything.

“Now we wait anywhere from fifteen minutes to half an hour,” says Angela, matter of factly, “You can update me on the progression of your response every few minutes.”  She moves to her side of the bed, again, reaching for the medical journal she left there the night previous.

“Or,” Fareeha says, “We could pass the time with something more fun.”

“Such as?”  Fareeha gives Angela a meaningful glance, and Angela adds, chidingly, “We really should wait until it sets in, before doing anything.  Don’t want to reduce the efficacy!”

“Well, I didn’t say it had to be _me_ ,” she gives a meaningful glance towards Angela’s own crotch.

“Ah,” says Angela, putting aside the journal, “Is that so?”

It is twenty minutes well-spent, and while Fareeha does not regret suggesting it, exactly, always enjoys getting Angela off, hearing the noises she makes and basking in the little compliments she showers Fareeha with, afterwards, she is, admittedly, more distracted than usual.  At first, it is easy to ignore, a slight tingling from her crotch, and nothing more, but her arousal grows steadily throughout the process—more so than usual, that is—and by the time Angela comes, Fareeha’s thoughts are decidedly more on the sensations she herself is currently experiencing than on what it is she is doing with her mouth. 

(Fortunately, she has more than enough practice at this, and knowledge of Angela’s specific preferences, by now, that her distraction does not have a terrible impact on her performance.  Judging by the way Angela nearly kicks her, as she comes, she thinks the experience was more than merely _satisfactory_.  Perhaps the anticipation is helping Angela, too.)

The feeling is _strange._ Not bad, but strange.  Normally, Fareeha associates heightened arousal with an increased sense of urgency, the feeling that she _needs_ to come, but now, it is different.  Although she may be more aroused than she is used to, might feel more deeply than usual, it is also, somehow, very relaxing, and although she very much wants to see how things are changed, is impatient in that sense, as is her wont, she is not there is no strong feeling of need, physically, to act.

_Interesting._

After another few minutes, during which Angela catches her breath, then walks to kitchen for a glass of water—more to ensure that she does not give into the post-orgasm urge to doze off than to rehydrate, Fareeha knows—Fareeha decides that she has waited long enough.

“I think it’s kicked in, now,” says she, as if it were not a massive understatement.  Always the sort of person who has little trouble with becoming aroused, Fareeha is now wet enough that it would be slightly embarrassing, if Angela were not already so familiar with her body and its typical responses, and if Angela did not always seem so _pleased_ to see how wet she gets.

“You think?” Angela asks, “Because if you’re not certain, we could always—”

“I’m certain!” Fareeha says, and she sounds far more impatient than she would have liked, “It’s just, no pressure if you’re still catching your breath, or something.”

Angela silences that concern by kissing Fareeha until _she_ is the one who is breathless, before breaking off and beginning her usual slow route down Fareeha’s body.

Normally, Fareeha appreciates just how much time Angela puts into foreplay, into ensuring that the rest of her body gets attention, too, before going down, but right now?  Fareeha is ready, has _been_ ready, and as much as she thought, early, she was not impatient—well, there may not be a physical sense of urgency, but frankly, she wants to _know,_ already, what it will feel like to have Angela’s mouth against her now.

“No offense,” Fareeha says, “But could we, um, hurry this up a bit?”  If she lets Angela, she will spend fifteen, twenty minutes toying with Fareeha before ever getting properly started.  For all Fareeha knows, the effects might have worn off again.

(Next time, Fareeha thinks, they will have to try that, Angela beginning her usual meandering foreplay immediately after applying the lube, and surprises herself with the fact that she is already considering a _next time._ )

“Sorry,” Angela says, cheeks pink from embarrassment and arousal both, “I usually just use it on myself, so I didn’t think—”

“It’s fine,” Fareeha says, and gently nudges Angela downwards in the right direction.  “I just don’t want it wear off.”

“Right,” Angela agrees, and she settles between Fareeha’s legs, lowers her mouth and—

“Whoa!” Fareeha says, “A little gentler, please!”  It does not hurt, not in the slightest, but Fareeha, for the first time in her life, is more than a little concerned about lasting for as long as she would like.

A blink from Angela, “You _are_ more sensitive than usual,” and of course, she states this in the fascinated sort of voice she gets when discussing an experiment, or something of the like. 

“Of course I am,” Fareeha says, because was that not the point?  But now that Angela mentions it, she is _much_ more sensitive than usual, yes, to a degree she did not quite anticipate.  Normally, she does not think that there can be such a thing as too much clitoral stimulation, but now… “Just, uh, not too much on my clit, please?”  It would not do for this to be over practically before it has begun.

A hum of agreement is all she gets from Angela, who is once again lowering her mouth to Fareeha’s center, although this time she does not use a hand to part Fareeha’s labia, focuses her attention in and between them instead, running her tongue around Fareeha’s vulva and sucking, occasionally, at her labia, or dipping her tongue lower.

It is not overwhelming, exactly, because there is still such a _relaxed_ feeling, there, and so Fareeha does not think it is possible to feel overwhelmed, but it is something similar, is overpowering in the sense that Fareeha scarcely notices the way the rest of her body is responding to this.  Normally, that sort of felling immediately precedes an orgasm, and is accompanied by an urgency, a need to focus on only that sensation so that she might come.

Now, that she will come s a foregone conclusion, and she is not choosing to ignore the rest of her body, so much as it is that the other things she is feeling pale in comparison to the sensations of what it is that Angela is doing to her.  Everything is just so much more _intense_ , in a way that Fareeha was told to expect but still could not, somehow, imagine.

Without a doubt, it is the most physically intense sex Fareeha has ever had, even if it is not emotionally.

(In all fairness to Angela, the most emotionally intense sexual experiences of Fareeha’s life have almost all been with her, too, this just is not one of them.  Which, frankly, is a good thing.  It is nice if sometimes sex is just _fun_.)

Angela breathes gently against Fareeha’s clit, clearly debating whether or not now is an appropriate time to resume stimulating it, and without thinking Fareeha breathes out a little “ _Wow,_ ” at the sensation.  At that, Angela laughs in response, buries her face on the inside of one of Fareeha’s thighs as she does so, and Fareeha is _almost_ embarrassed, would be, were it not for the fact that she knows that both of them have said stupider things during sex before, and were she not so thoroughly distracted by just how strange it is to feel Angela’s laughter against her, the vibration of her cheek which is pressed against Fareeha.  It is not new, per se, but it is—different.  Heightened.  Fareeha wants to know what it would feel like directly into her center but knows, too, that they ought to work their way up to that.  This is all still just a little much.

“You good?” she asks, when Angela’s giggling has faded, somewhat.

“Sorry,” says Angela, laughter and arousal both thickening her voice.  Then, “Are you?”

“Yeah,” Fareeha says, “It’s kinda overwhelming, but in a good way.”

“Are you sure?” 

(Fareeha should not have used the word _overwhelming._ When Angela uses it, it is only ever with a negative connotation, and although Fareeha did not mean that, it is only natural that her partner would be concerned, having heard a phrase she herself uses primarily to describe anxiety attacks.)

“Yes,” Fareeha says, “ _Very_.”

“Okay,” says Angela, but she does not immediately return to what she is doing, grabs one of Fareeha’s hands in her own, instead.  “Let me know if it’s too much.”

(They do this, sometimes, hold hands.  Usually, it is when one or more of them is particularly emotional, or they are trying something with a strong power exchange.  A normal grip means to proceed, a harder one to increase pressure, and loosening grip means to lighten up, a bit.  Letting go pauses everything, but does not stop a scene entirely in the same way using their safeword would.)

“I will,” Fareeha says, and tries not to roll her eyes at how concerned Angela is being.  It is, after all, only weed.  Weed _lube_ , which is, somehow, inherently a bit ridiculous, even if Fareeha has very quickly come to understand why Angela enjoys it.

Seemingly content, Angela resumes her attentions, and it is just as intense as if she had not stopped, if they had not had that brief interlude.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” she says, because really, there is no better expression for what she is feeling right now, the intensity of it, the suddenness.  To say that it is _good_ would be a gross understatement.

Generally speaking, Fareeha is not the sort of person who has trouble staying at a reasonable volume during sex.  This is not, however, a typical situation, and the part of Fareeha that is capable of focusing on anything other than what she is feeling, the warmth and the pressure and the softness of Angela’s tongue against her—that part of Fareeha is very grateful that it is early afternoon, and it is unlikely that anyone is in any of the surrounding rooms.  As much as she is enjoying this, she would prefer the rest of the hall _not_ know, if only because she is expected to look them in the eye when she gives them an order.

Angela finally returns to her clit, then, and Fareeha forgets everything she was just thinking about staying quiet.  What, specifically, she says, she is not fully aware of, nor does she notice the way her back is arching, the way her thighs tighten around Angela’s head.

She squeezes her hand.  _Harder, more._ Now that she has had time to adjust—insofar as one _can_ adjust—to the sensation, Angela’s mouth is just a touch too gentle, and she wants more, wants, finally, to come, to see just how good it can be.

But there is not the urgency of her usual growing orgasm, she can feel it building, yes, but does not have to try to maintain it, to focus on it, does not need to jerk her hips or do anything other than feel arousal well inside her, tiny sparks of it spilling over in almost-orgasms, and she barely stops herself from coming, wants to enjoy the feeling just a little longer, the depth of it, the inevitability.

Or, she plans on stopping herself, tries to hold off for as long as she can, but it is hard, particularly when Angela’s thumb is rubbing soothing circles on the back of her hand, and Angela gives a little hum of pleasure against her, and she realizes that she can enjoy this again so why hold back, now.

So she does not, not anymore, and she expects her orgasm to wash over her, to be intense, but still as brief as ever, lasting a handful of seconds before she returns to herself, catches her breath, panting.

Instead it is longer, much longer, and partway through Angela removes her mouth, replaces it with a hand to help work Fareeha through and moves to kiss her forehead, comfortingly.  Certainly Fareeha does not need comfort, is only dimly aware of it, so focused is she on the sensation, but she appreciates the gesture, and the knowledge that Angela is watching over her like this only enhances the feeling.

And then, at last, it is over.  She is still more sensitive than normal—has no idea, in fact, when that will go away, because she realizes, suddenly, that she does not know how much time has passed—and she is thirsty, too, but Angela brought a glass of water back into the room, earlier, and when she moves to reach for it Angela passes it to her.

“How are you feeling?” Angela asks her, gently after she is done.

“Fantastic,” Fareeha says, because it is true.  “I think I’d like to do that again.”

“Really?” Angela perks up a bit, at that, and seems surprised.

“Of course,” although, privately, she thinks she would not like to do it alone, does not see how Angela can manage all the sensations when she uses it on herself.  “I might even return the favor.”  Not _often_ , of course, but… well, she is interested to see how Angela reacts.

“You don’t have to,” Angela tells her.  “You know there’s never any pressure to reciprocate anything.”

She does, and she trusts, too, that if she really hated it, could not get past the smell or the feeling that the oil on her tongue might cause—something Angela warned her about, that the lips and tongue were susceptible to it, too—that Angela would let her stop, would take care of herself.

But Fareeha would like to try, nonetheless.

Not now, though.  Later.  Almost always, it is Angela who drifts off post-coitus, but this time, it is Fareeha who feels her eyelids drooping, who thinks that any second now, she will fall asleep, if only she lets herself.

Then it comes to her: a pun.  And who would she be if she resisted?  Not Fareeha Amari.

“Y’know,” Fareeha says, her voice a sleepy not-quite mumble, “Maybe I was right to be concerned about your health after all.”

“How so?” Fareeha does not need to look to know that Angela’s brow is furrowing.

“That was more than just a _little_ death,” Fareeha does not bother to hide that she is laughing at her own joke.

“Ugh,” Angela says, “You’re terrible,” but Fareeha _knows_ her lover appreciates her puns, and always has.  Sure enough, her resolve does not last long.  “Move your arm,” Angela nudges at the arm she has across her chest, “I want to nap too.”

So they do, Angela’s head on Fareeha’s chest, an arm and leg thrown over her body protectively.

A strange warmth washes over her body, and for a second she thinks it is another effect of the drug but—no, Fareeha thinks, she feels safe, that is all.  Safe and protected in Angela’s arms.

**Author's Note:**

> someone please eat an edible for me bc its passover so i cant make my fave pot brownies
> 
> anyway, hope ur day is great, pls lmk ur thoughts


End file.
